Backhanded Blessings

I was supposed to be in Lisbon this past weekend, a place I've wanted to see for a very long time. But instead, I hopped on a flight to NYC to be with my 97 year old grandfather in the hospital as he faces very serious illness.

And that's where I currently am, sitting across from him at his bedside in Mt Sinai hospital. He is laying asleep and completely sedated (and has been for days, in fact) hooked up to a respirator, and with various tubes coming out of his arms and nose and other places on his body. There is a curtain with hearts printed on it partitioning the room, and on the other side of it is an African American family huddled around their mother, who keeps making very uncomfortable muted squealing noises.

For those of you know my relationship with my grandpa, you will know that he is a pillar of inspiration to me: a man who has survived pogroms, the murder of his brother, immigration, an economic depression, lung cancer, the loss of his wife, and all of life’s inevitable ups and downs… not just with grace, but with humor and optimism and generosity and morality.

But grief, or the anticipation of grief, is a very strange thing. I sometimes think that when we lose someone, or a loved one is in mortal danger, our feelings are as much about the pain of our own loss as about the person we are worried about losing.

I was devastated that by the time I arrived at Mt Sinai, my grandfather had been put under and not conscious enough to know I was here. I desperately wanted to be able to tell him how much I love him—and have him be awake enough to process it. And so for the last few days I’ve felt super frustrated as I’ve sat at his bedside…watching him twitch every now again, watching the monitor of his heartbeats and blood pressure, but never being able to talk to him and send him love. Do I want this for my own sake or for his? Both?

And as I’ve spent the last few days feeling rather helpless and frustrated, I’ve passed time with my cousins and uncles and other family members who also flew here to be with my grandfather. There were fourteen of us, at various times in the day, popping in and out of the hospital bedside, huddling in the waiting room, taking turns going for meals.

I listened to my brother telling corny jokes I couldn’t stop laughing at, because for some reason (much to the chagrin of my sister-in-law, who tells me I’m encouraging him) I have a knee jerk reaction to him, and laugh hysterically at every silly joke he tells. It’s almost involuntary—years and years of conditioning (and dare I say, ever-growing affection).

I watched my parents extend their generosity, paying for hotel rooms and dinners for the whole party without batting an eye.

Last night at dinner, my cousin Jon grabbed the bill and refused to let anyone else pay, even though it was just four of us, all cousins, and we all were expecting to split the bill.

I’ve been sharing a hotel room with my cousin Sandy, who has been willing to listen to anything and everything I’ve wanted to talk about—and even put up with my own bizarre sense of humor and attempts to sabotage her sanity by singing cheesy songs from the 80s that she wouldn't be able to get out of her head all day...

The perverse psychology of grief means that the threat of losing something makes you acutely appreciate what you otherwise might take for granted. But I didn’t need my grandfather to be gravely ill to deeply appreciate who he is. I already did.

But being here these past few days has made me appreciate even more the blessing of what my grandfather has created and the legacy that will continue for years to come.

I have an amazing family. A truly generous, decent, lovely, humorous, unbelievably supportive family. Created by an amazing grandfather (and late grandmother). Whose example continues to pave the way for all of us.